The Supply
by Taiven
Summary: Dean returns to his old high school as a substitute teacher to finish a job he thought had been taken care of ten years ago.
1. Chapter I

**Summary: **The Winchester brothers return to one of Dean's old high schools where they believe a job could be waiting for them. To Sam it's just an ordinary hunt, despite the janitor's uniform he has to grudgingly don, but as Dean begins to allow memories he had buried nearly ten years ago to resurface, he can't help but relive the past. He feels something familiar about the evil they are hunting, and Dean soon realizes that what he thought had been destroyed all those years ago has now returned for more.

**Timeline**: Set in two: one is when the boys are 17 and 13, the other is when they are 27 and 23, sometime after John`s death.

**Rating: **M

**Warnings:** Language, blood and gore, sexual themes, violence... Basically just all that good stuff, but nothing incredibly bad.

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"_The difference between school and life? In school, you're taught a lesson and then given a test. In life, you're given a test that teaches you a lesson._"

– Tom Bodett

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**THE SUPPLY**

Chapter I

Several Pairs of Eyes

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Crowley County, Colorado

1996

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Dean was surprised when he caught himself thinking that the school actually looked, well… _nice_. However, compared to most schools he had been forced to go to in his short seventeen years of life, this was not saying much. The one-storey building was large and wide, constructed of tanned bricks and reddish shingles that formed several sloping roofs. Large windows lined the front of the school, most of them with blinds open to the sunlight cascading down from the clear morning sky. The colour green seemed to surround the area in the form of tall trees swaying slightly in the breeze and thick grass creating a lawn that stretched out on all three sides of the building. The entire scene created a type of peacefulness Dean was not used to feeling.

He didn't trust it for a second.

Slowing his steps as he neared the front entrance, Dean stared at the large doors swinging outward as a swarm of students pushed past him. The backpack slung across his shoulder was almost weightless, containing little more than a broken pen, a few crumpled pieces of paper, and several granola bars he had thrown in at the last second before leaving the motel. He had made sure Sam had taken some too before dropping him off at the middle school across town.

He would never admit it, but Dean always felt a little unsettled when his brother wasn't in yelling distance, for the kid was usually a few feet away at most; somewhere Dean could keep an eye on him, make sure he didn't get into any trouble. Sam would probably argue it was the other way around. The thought of this made Dean smile, but then he remembered that he was about to spend six hours of his life sitting in a desk, forced to watch as ordinary people went about their boring business. He just couldn't wait to finally graduate and get his diploma. Then his dad would finally be satisfied and allow him to hunt full time.

A loud ringing filled the schoolyard and Dean cursed himself as he jumped slightly at the noise. It was the warning bell, reminding students that they only had a few minutes until classes officially started. Taking in a deep breath and pushing it out in a long sigh, Dean joined the thinning crowd of teenagers as they pushed through the open doors and were met with an icy blast of air conditioning. The chilly air felt good on his skin as Dean let the familiar noises of high school wash over him.

The slamming of lockers, the summer gossip, the shrill screams of girls being reunited after the summer. Dean had to duck out of the way to avoid a collision with a girl running down the hall to greet her 'I-haven't-seen-you-in-_forever_!' friend. Unfamiliar faces were everywhere, people who obviously knew each other but didn't know him. All the commotion should have been a bit overwhelming, especially for a guy who rarely saw more than a dozen people gathered in one area at a time, but Dean was used to it. It seemed like every school day was the first day of school for him, because usually it was. He was in the twelfth grade now and already he had been to over fifteen different schools in the last two years alone.

Not that he was complaining, as Sam tended to do. No, Dean actually liked it. The constant moving kept his mind sharp, prepared him for anything. This way there were no friendships to break and no messy goodbyes. He would pass through schools, always the "new kid", and that was fine by him. As long as no one tried to figure him out and no one discovered what his life was really like, then he was content.

Sam often called him antisocial, which may be true, but at least he wasn't the one buried behind a pile of books, constantly studying one thing or another. Sam was only in the eighth grade and already he had plans for college, though he had never actually told Dean about them. He had never been very good at hiding his stuff, and when living with an older brother who sometimes had nothing better to do than snoop around, there really wasn't much he could hide. Dean reminded himself that he should probably squash this ridiculous dream his brother had before it got out of hand, but he just couldn't bring himself to tell his brother that he was never going to college. That just wasn't the life he was supposed to live, but maybe he could let Sam grow out of the idea. In time he'd realize he was meant for bigger things than defending people from their angry ex-wives or the government's faulty justice system.

Dean suddenly realized he had been walking for over five minutes, not really knowing where he was going. The halls were beginning to empty and he had yet to find his homeroom. The paper containing his schedule claimed his classroom was located in room 168. Dean glanced at the nearest door which had the number 118 spread across it in pinkish red. The second bell rang, signalling the beginning of class, and Dean let out another sigh.

"Perfect."

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The classroom was already crowded when he first walked in, nearly four minutes after the bell had rung and school had officially started. He had become lost while travelling the endless hallways that made Crowley County High School a maze, searching for his first period class; American history. Unfortunately, the teacher was in the midst of what appeared to be a very long and boring lecture as he stepped through the entrance, stopping as soon as his feet had crossed the invisible classroom line.

The room went quiet as the teacher's droning voice abruptly stopped and every head seemed to swivel in his direction. This would have slightly unnerved Dean in the past, preferring to enter a room unnoticed until he chose to have it otherwise, but it had occurred so many times he simply ignored the several pairs of eyes watching him. He knew they were analyzing him, trying hard to figure this stranger out in the first few moments they became aware of his existence. Luckily for Dean, he was good at hiding who he was.

"You must be Dean Winchester," the teacher announced in a deep voice cracking with age. He wore large round glasses that caught the fluorescent lighting of the classroom. He seemed to have been granted the gift of having a full head of white hair in his old age, but his tweed suit was stretched to the limit across his large belly. He stared at Dean with a stern look, obviously disapproving of his late arrival.

"Uh, yah. That would be me," replied Dean as he matched his gaze. The man simply stood there for a moment, appearing to be sizing Dean up in that creepy way teachers did, but then he simply said, "You can take the empty seat next to Monica in the back."

Dean turned his head to the left and spotted the vacant desk standing next to a girl with long black hair that hid half her face from view. She had been staring at Dean throughout the entire exchange but quickly glanced down at her desk when he looked in her direction, as did most of the class. Dean readjusted the strap on his shoulder with a quick shrug and then made his way past the first five rows of seats to the sixth, where he pulled the chair from his desk and sat down, dumping his bag on the floor next to his feet.

A few of the students' heads had followed him but quickly snapped back to the front as the teacher cleared his throat loudly. "As I was about to do before Mr. Winchester decided to _grace_ us with his presence, I will now introduce myself. As many of you already know, I am Mr. Jargon and I will be your teacher for the rest of the semester. I'd like you to understand immediately that I will not tolerate any type of disrespect directed towards me or to any other student in this classroom." He seemed to point this warning at Dean, and suddenly he wondered if he really _was _all that good at hiding who he was.

As Mr. Jargon continued with his rant Dean immediately zoned out, uninterested in what the old man had to say about civil war and dead presidents. The only way he'd become interested is if those dead presidents started murdering people from their graves. _M_aybe _then_ he'd join in a discussion about Abraham Lincoln, but only to talk about the guy's deep dark secrets.

Glancing around the room, Dean saw mainly the backs of heads. To his right was a large boy, muscles bulging beneath a shirt as tight as the one worn by the busty brunette girl sitting next to him. Dean had to stifle a laugh before he turned his attention to his left, where he was met with a curtain of dark hair. He found no interest in the other students and soon boredom dominated his mind.

Crossing his arms atop the desk and resting his chin on his wrists, Dean commented in a low voice, "The man really doesn't know when to stop talking, does he?"

He caught movement to his left as the girl named Monica turned her face in his direction but he kept his eyes trained to the front of the room where Mr. Jargon was still babbling on about what to expect in the course. Dean didn't really care considering that he'd probably be gone and away from this town in the next few weeks. Of course if Sam was here he would have been sitting in the front row, possibly taking notes.

"I mean, what if he runs out of air and has a heart attack or something? Shouldn't we stop him?" This time Dean did look as he heard Monica let out a timid giggle, shifting his eyes to the left. He could still barely see the girl's face due to hair hanging limply before it but he saw part of a smile. Who knew, maybe there was a pretty face behind there. That could definitely ease his boredom.

"Ms. Tess," the teacher's voice boomed across the classroom and Dean straightened his back as he saw the girl jump slightly at her name. "Is there something funny about what I just said?"

Monica sounded panicked as she tried to mumble an excuse. "No - No sir. I was just-"

"Sorry Mr. Jargon. It was my fault." Dean interrupted, trying to save this girl from the wrath of the old man.

"Mr. Winchester, would you like to tell the class what you said that Ms. Tess seemed to find so funny?"

"Well, uh…" Dean raked his mind for an answer but all that came to mind seemed to end with his getting expelled. He knew his dad would be pissed if he got kicked out of school so he tried flattery. "I was just saying how thrilled I am to learn history from a man who obviously has seen a lot of it."

There were several laughs from around the class and Dean suddenly realized he had worded that sentence horribly wrong as Mr. Jargon's face started to turn crimson, clashing with his snowy white hair.

"Uh, what I meant to say is-"

"Mr. Winchester I think it would be best if you left this classroom and made your way to the principal's office. I will not tolerate interruptions in my classroom."

Dean sighed, this the very thing he had been trying to avoid. His dad had always taught him to stay out of the limelight. Just blend in with the crowd, don't draw attention to yourself. But how was he supposed to do that when he didn't fit in at all? How was he supposed to sit in a classroom for six hours, learning about negative reciprocals and the Great Depression, cells and the human mind, Edgar Allen Poe and that whiny bitch Romeo, when he knew that innocent people were dying all around him? That evil was lurking in the shadows as everyone was absolutely oblivious to the danger they were constantly in. How was he supposed to sit there quietly when all he wanted to do was scream and shout and yell that everyone was a fucking moron because they couldn't see the truth?

Swallowing the inappropriate words that had risen in his throat, Dean reached down and grabbed the strap of his bag, his chair making a loud screeching sound as it was pushed back and he stood. "See yah later," he said to Monica before leaving the classroom, several sets of eyes boring into his back.

He hoped he got lost on the way to the office.

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Crowley County, Colorado

2006

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"I don't believe it. Crowley County High School. It hasn't changed a bit."

Dean gazed out of the Impala's window at the familiar building, remembering the day he had first seen it. It had been warmer then, September never tinged with the chilly winds that plagued November. Even so, the school looked exactly the same, with large windows lining the front, red shingles and brown brick, green everywhere else. It was almost as if he had stepped through a time warp and was now ten years in the past, seventeen-years-old and just passing the stage of amateur hunter.

"Must bring back some memories, huh?" Sam asked from the passenger seat. Dean didn't say anything as he nodded his head slowly. "Hey, is this the school where you beat up that jock? What was his name… um…"

Dean smiled as his brother fumbled around in his mind for the name. "Cory Delaware," he said, remembering the name well. "Biggest prick in high school history."

Sam let out a short laugh. "Yah… Yah, I remember you telling me the story. You came home with a pretty messed up looking face a few days later."

"Bastard couldn't take me by himself," Dean defended himself. "I think I looked pretty good after facing seven of his pals." The frown on his face was deep as he suddenly pushed down on the gas pedal and the car jerked forward.

"All right, didn't mean to upset you Dean," joked Sam as he noticed the look on his brother's face. However, the expression immediately vanished as Dean shot him a grin. "Remember how I got back at him?"

Sam simply laughed.

They continued to drive until they came to a motel on the outskirts of town, the sun just beginning to disappear over the horizon. Sam's face lit up as he looked out the window at the crumbling building. "Holy crap, I remember this place!" he announced as Dean pulled into the large driveway. "This is where they had that broken pop machine. I remember we emptied that thing in one night."

Dean smiled at the memory and other ones that began to return at the sight of the building. It had been ten years since they had lived in Crowley County, but even hundreds of motels later, he could still see themselves sitting on the second floor walkway. Legs dangling between the bars and over the parking lot, both of them sipping their stolen pop and watching cars drive by as they tried to guess what kind of people were behind the wheel. Were any of them as messed up as they were? Did any of them know the truth? Were they really monsters disguised as people?

Dean had soon learned that these questions were pointless to ask, except for maybe the last one. Still, the motel brought back a lot of memories, and he watched as his brother looked around the place like he really _was_ in the past. He had already parked the Impala in one of the many vacant parking spaces and had left Sam outside as he walked into the main office to rent a room. "Hey! Get room 208!" He heard his brother call as the door swung shut behind him. He recognized the number as belonging to the room they had rented last time; where they had lived for longer then a month.

Dean rang a bell on the desk as he waited for someone to notice that there was actually a customer here. He had to admit that the place looked dead, only two other cars parked outside, excluding his own. The motel looked like it could use a few touch ups. Scratch that. Maybe a whole renovation. Even so, Dean had seen worse.

Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps and an old man appeared, a welcoming smile on his lips. Dean almost had to steady himself on the front desk as he found he recognized the man. "Lou? Jesus, I thought you'd be dead by now!"

The old man looked confused for a second, his wrinkled smile vanishing for a moment, but then his lips peeled back to reveal an even larger grin as he let out a hearty laugh. "Dean Winchester. I barely even recognized you!"

"Yah, well I've gotten a hell of a lot better looking over the years," Dean grinned back.

"I bet I could still pick up more babes then you, pipsqueak."

"Yah, babes as in great great grandchildren." Dean was surprised how easy it was to resume the bantering friendship him and Lou had shared ten years ago. "Jesus, how old are you now Lou? A hundred and three?"

"Ninety seven this year, actually," he said, not looking a day over eighty.

'Well I don't know how the hell you do it. I thought you would have dropped dead years ago from all those cigars you smoke." Dean shook his head in sincere puzzlement.

"You and me both, kid. Now what brings you back to good ol' Crowley County?"

"Oh, you know, me and my brother taking a road trip," feigned Dean, realizing that Lou was one of the very few people he actually felt bad lying to. "Trying to strengthen the brotherly bond and all that."

"I remember you two used to fight like cats and dogs. Had a few complaints about the noise level when you two argued."

Dean chuckled. "Sorry 'bout that Lou. I promise it won't happen again."

"Yah, well I guess we were just lucky your dad was there to sort you two out. How is the man these days, anyway? Still working as a traveling salesman?"

"I don't think he'd retire from that job if _ever_ given the chance." Dean forced himself to smile as Lou laughed, preferring not to tell the truth; that there dad was dead and rotting somewhere in hell. "Yah, now it's just me and my brother. We'll probably be staying here for a few days, but we don't know how long yet. You got a room?"

"What are yah, blind? Of course I got a room." The man threw up his arms in exaggerated exasperation. "I've got twenty rooms if you want 'em."

"Just a double for now, Lou," Dean replied, wishing that the man didn't end up going out of business. He was a nice guy, an ex-marine like his father, and he didn't deserve that. "Sam would actually like room 208 if it's possible. Guess he likes to relive childhood memories whenever given the chance."

"Room 208 it is." The old man disappeared for a moment again, returning with a set of worn down keys which he handed to Dean as he said, "Tell Sam to get his butt in here and say hello when he ain't too busy reliving those memories, eh?"

"Will do," Dean replied with one last smile before leaving the office. "And I'll take you up on your bet one of these nights. Take you out to the bar and see who the real babe magnet is."

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"Reports say he was found in his bathtub along with his alarm clock. They're calling it a suicide, no questions asked." Sam glanced up at his brother as he began to pace the room, a look of frustration etched into his features.

"It just doesn't make any sense," he growled. "Out of all the stubborn bastards I have come to know in my time of life, he was the _least_ likely to go like that. I swear Sam, something's not right here."

Sam stood up from the bed he had been sitting on, preferring to rest on the chair in the corner of the motel room. He carried the newspaper with him, a copy of the 'Crowley County Crow's Report'. He took another glance at the front page article, finally shrugging his shoulders as he tossed the paper onto the crooked table next to him and sat down. "Maybe the guy figured it was just time to go. Maybe it _was_ just a suicide."

"No, definitely not," Dean quickly proclaimed. "You didn't know Mr. Jargon. He freakin' _loved_ his life. I mean, the guy got _paid _to do what he loved: torture his students with boring lectures and piles of homework. He wouldn't have given that up for anything."

Sam found it amusing how Dean still referred to his old history teacher as `Mr. Jargon`. "Well maybe things changed. I mean, Dean, we haven't been back here for ten years. A lot of things could have happened. I don't mind you dragging me out here on a whim – we were passing by anyway – but I don't think there's a job here.

Dean was silent for a moment, his pacing having stopped abruptly. Sam watched as he slowly sat on the edge of his bed, his back slouching as he leaned forward slightly. "Something's going on here, Sam," he finally said as he stared at the flattened carpet. "Something I think I've seen before."

There was an emotion hidden behind his brother's words – pain? anger? regret? – but Sam couldn't discern it fully. Instead, he asked, "What is it?"

Dean looked up and met Sam's eyes. "Evil."

"Evil comes in many forms, Dean."

"Yah, and usually there's a lot of ways to kill it too." He got up again and continued to pace the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sam recognized this as Dean's way of thinking, deciding to remain quiet as he watched the troubled look on his brother's face. Finally his feet stopped and Dean turned around to face Sam. "Look, I'm not sure if-" He paused for a moment, trying to rearrange his words. "When we were here last do you remember the hunt dad was on?"

Sam thought about it. "I think I remember him driving out to Utah to take care of some poltergeist thing."

"No, not that." Dean looked at his brother with a strange expression, almost as if he was contemplating whether to reveal a secret or not. "Dad never told you about the job that was _here_, in Crowley County?"

"Not that I can remember," replied Sam, curious now. "Does this have anything to do with why you're so convinced Larry Jargon didn't kill himself?"

Dean's gaze seemed to fade for a second before he grunted what seemed to be a 'yes'. He sat down on the end of the bed again, his elbows balancing on his knees. "When we lived here there were a few unexpected deaths."

Sam dug into his memory, trying to recall what he could about his preteen days. "Yah, now I remember. Suicides, right?"

"They weren't suicides. Something killed them." The anger was unmistakable as it made Dean's words into a hiss.

Sam suddenly got the feeling that he should be treading carefully. "What was it?"

"We thought it was a ghost. Dad burnt its bones the day we left."

Sam remembered that day. He had been upset that he had to leave yet another town and another school and another group of friends, with little more than a three hour warning. He also remembered that Dean had been incredibly quiet for the next few weeks afterward. "But now you think it was something else. Something that's come back." It wasn't a question, because now Sam was recalling the strange behaviour Dean had displayed during those weeks. At first he had thought his brother was upset about leaving as well, but then he realized that it was something much more.

He remembered how it had frightened him when his brother had left him in the car while his dad had run into a diner to get them some lunch, and how he hadn't returned for nearly two hours. Their father had barely said anything when he had returned to the car to find his oldest son gone. Instead, he had told Sam to come inside the diner and they had sat at a table by themselves as they waited for Dean to come back. When he finally showed up at the front entrance of the diner they had simply loaded themselves back into the car and drove away without a word. Little by little Dean had returned to his normal self; a smile here, a brotherly insult there. Eventually Sam had forgotten all about his quiet spree, simply glad to have his big brother back, until now.

He was wondering whether it was a good idea to bring up the topic when Dean suddenly shot up from the bed and stretched his arms above him. Yawning loudly, the frustrated look on his face seemed to disappear, leaving only a tired looking Dean. "Well Sammy, looks like there's a job here after all," he said with forced excitement in his voice. "And looks like we'll be getting up early tomorrow."

"Why is that?" Sam asked, not being able to recall when Dean had ever openly accepted waking up before ten o'clock.

Dean smiled mischievously. "We want to look our best when we become well mannered employees of the school board."

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**To Be Continued**


	2. Chapter II

**THE SUPPLY**

Chapter II

The Legend

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Crowley County, Colorado

1996

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Most students would have taken one look at the guy and probably pissed themselves right there in the office. Dean couldn't say he'd blame them. He was _massive_, standing at least five inches taller than himself, and Dean had just passed a major growth spurge. He was already at six feet and probably had a ways to go yet. Not to mention that the guy wasn't even standing at his full height.

"Less than an hour of school and already I have a student in my office." Principal Kreg leaned on the edge of his desk, bulging forearms crossed over his chest.

_Do I win a prize or something?_ Dean thought to himself as he remained silent, standing before the man. He had dealt with a lot of principals in his lifetime, not including those teachers who liked to _think _they were principals, and he knew that the quickest way out of the office was simply to shut his mouth and nod whenever the occasion arose. Other than that, all he had to do was listen as he was told how he _should_ act and wait until he was punished for how he _did_ act.

"Tell me Dean, do you think you should be here?"

That stunned the Winchester for a moment. _Well this is new_. However, he quickly recovered from his shock before asking, "Is there a right answer to this question?"

The man chuckled, his laugh deep and rumbling. It reminded Dean of how his dad used to laugh. He tried to recall how long ago he had heard that sound, and he abruptly realized that the two men appeared to be around the same age. They also shared similar dark hair and deep brown eyes. However, whereas his father could pass as looking like an actual dad - at least when he wasn't covered in blood or holding a machete in his hand - this guy looked as if he could be some sort of hitman. Slap a pair of dark shades on him and, along with his chiselled jaw line and hollow cheeks, Dean could easily picture him crashing through a skylight while simultaneously shooting two handheld machine guns. The funny thing was his dad had probably already done that.

"There's definitely no wrong answer, Dean." Smiling, the principal obviously still expected Dean to answer his question, so he did. Honestly.

"I definitely _should not_ be here."

_Not in this room. Not in this school. Not even in this town. I should be with my dad, hunting. Saving lives. Being useful. _

"I agree." The words were spoken clearly but Dean still wondered if he had heard correctly.

"You... _agree_?" he asked hesitantly, one eyebrow raised over a slightly narrowed eye. He was a little suspicious now, unsure of what kind of principal this was. Most figures of authority he had crossed in the past had labelled him as an ignorant and rude teen, immediately grouping him with numerous others his age; kids who had never seen a dead body before; who had probably never felt what it was like to lose someone they cared about; who partied and played video games all weekend because they had nothing better to do. But here was a man who actually agreed with him. It was so absurd, he just had to ask it.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch, Dean." The principal uncrossed his arms, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sleek blue pants instead. "I just happen to believe that Mr. Jargon is not the greatest judge of character."

"You'd think that would get better with age, huh?" Dean joked, trying to see how far he could push his luck. It also stopped him from wondering if the man had just paid him a compliment.

Principal Kreg smirked. "Perhaps not always. You are a new student here Dean, and that means a new start, whether you need one or not. I'm glad I am able to welcome you here, even though the circumstances are not exactly ideal. As for Mr. Jargon, I'll have a talk with him, but I don't think it would be wise for you to go back there now. He has quite a temper."

"I've noticed," grumbled Dean as he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall to his left. 8:25am. He sighed before returning his gaze to the towering principal. "So... um... what exactly am I going to do for the next forty-five minutes?"

"Well, I'm afraid we don't usually allow students to wander the hallways during class, but you can wait in the front office if you like. Or in the library."

Library. Books. Reading. Sammy. Blah.

"I think the office will be just fine," Dean said as he smiled painfully. The principal chucked and pushed himself off the desk, gaining three more inches in the progress. Dean couldn't stop from scowling slightly, hating being shorter than anyone no matter who they were, but he said goodbye to the man in a pleasanter tone. He had decided that the guy really wasn't all that bad. Of course the fact that he could probably kick anyone's ass didn't hurt his case.

The front office was in an obvious need of redecorating, but the little old lady behind the secretary's desk seemed so comfortable in the surroundings that Dean didn't have the heart to say anything out loud. She smiled warmly at him as he came out of the principal's office, holding up a bucket full of multicoloured suckers that matched the wallpaper. Choosing a red one and thanking her politely, Dean slid the lollipop in his mouth as he took a seat in one of the flower printed chairs situated in a corner of the room.

Forty-five minutes of sitting. It didn't really seem that different from class. Hell, it would probably be better. This way he didn't have to pretend to be listening to Mr. Jargon's tedious voice. He could just lean back, relax, close his eyes, and think about the busty girl he had seen earlier in history. Or maybe hum Metallica to himself. Perhaps recite the several terms for shapeshifter he knew.

_Let's see... Metamorph. Skin-walker. Mimic. Therianth-_

"Mrs. Janice said you have her new attendance sheets?"

Dean hated it when people ended their sentences with unnecessary questioning tones. It made everything they said into a question, and Dean absolutely despised questions. Well, that wasn't necessarily true, but his dad did, and he had taught Dean to ask the least amount possible. He was supposed to be prepared and ready, all the knowledge he required already stored in his mind. Questions were just another sign of weakness.

Already agitated from lack of sleep and the fact that he was spending most of his morning in an office that belonged to the seventies, Dean opened his eyes to seek the questioning speaker. He was surprised to see a student standing in front of the secretary's desk, not having heard the girl come in even though the door was practically right beside him. Her back was facing him but he observed that she wore what could have passed as a uniform in any catholic school. Her top was a white blouse that had visibly been ironed just that morning, and she wore a plaid skirt coloured dark green and blue. Her socks were navy blue as well, pulled up to just below her knees with her feet stuffed into leather black shoes. Her hair was long and chestnut brown, hanging in loose waves across her back.

Incredibly bored already, Dean decided a little friendly conversation couldn't hurt. The secretary had disappeared in the back room, gone to fetch attendance sheets for a teacher named Mrs. Janice, so the girl was simply standing at the desk and waiting patiently. Dean smirked.

"Nice skirt."

The girl spun around at the sound of his voice, obviously startled by his presence. She held a small hand to her chest, a surprised look on her face as she let out a deep breath. "Wow, I didn't see you there." A nervous laugh passed her lips.

Dean gave her an amused look. He couldn't help but immediately label her as one of those preppy chicks who took school way too seriously and loved to kiss ass. Nevertheless, he had to admit that she didn't need intelligence to be successful in life. No, she could do it with looks alone, because with that slender frame and those full lips, well, let's just say Dean could get used to the annoying question marks and the ass kissing.

She looked a little uncomfortable as he continued to stare. "Um, sorry, what was it that you said?"

Dean repeated himself. "Nice skirt."

The girl looked confused for a moment but then glanced down at her wardrobe. "Thank you, I guess," she replied, meeting his eyes once again with a small, unsure smile.

Dean had no clue what possessed him to say what he said next, but he guessed his bad mood had something to do with it. He was tired and angry and he knew that if he brought that home to his dad there would be major consequences to face later.

"Yah, no problem. You know, I think my grandma owns a skirt just like that."

Of course that wasn't true since Dean had never known any of his grandparents, but the girl's jaw dropped like a bag of bricks as she let out a noise of disbelief. "Excuse me?"

But before Dean could reply, maybe with an apology, the secretary had already returned. "Here you are Amanda, enough attendance sheets to last a lifetime."

Amanda had turned her back to Dean but he could see her anger in the way her shoulders were held tense and rigid. Even her voice, seemingly kind and polite as she thanked the secretary, had an underlying tone of rage. Dean had always been good at reading the emotions of others through their tone and body language, a skill that was incredibly important within his unique lifestyle, and right now he knew Amanda was _pissed_.

He already regretted his words, but before he could make the decision to apologize she was already out the door and walking swiftly away. Dean let his head drop to his chest as he slouched in the chair, letting out a long sigh. "My _grandma_?" he hissed under his breath. "What am I, in fucking grade _two_?" And suddenly closing his eyes again, Dean realized he had just asked himself two questions. Annoying question marks and all.

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Crowley County, Colorado

2006

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"I must be older than I thought," the large man chuckled as he held out his enormous hand. Dean still felt significantly small as he reached out and shook Principal Kreg's hand, the man towering above him. "I never thought I'd live to see the day that _Dean Winchester _returns to Crowley County High School as a teacher."

Dean smirked, laughing inwardly at the thought of him actually qualifying as an educator. "Well sir, you always did like to say 'never say never', didn't you?"

"That's correct. I'm surprised you still remember!" Principal Kreg seemed to be genuinely happy to see Dean, and the Winchester felt a little bad that he was simply playing a charade. The man had always struck Dean as someone who truly wanted his students to succeed, and Dean felt that he had somehow let him down.

"You know sir, _you're_ the one who inspired me to start teaching," he announced with a grin, perhaps trying to make up for lying by flattering the man. "And I'm very glad you did. I just... love to... teach."

"That's great to hear!" Principal Kreg patted Dean on the back, practically knocking the wind out of him as he laughed heartily. The sound sent a shockwave through Dean as an image of his father unexpectedly appeared in his mind. He tried to laugh with the man but the chuckle caught in his throat.

"And _history_ no less. Out of all the subjects to choose from, you chose history."

Dean immediately saw his chance to do some digging. "Yah, I thought I'd try to prove to Mr. Jargon that I actually knew something about my country. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll ever get the chance." Dean added a touch of sympathy to his voice, just for good measure.

Principal Kreg's smile vanished almost as soon as the deceased teacher's name left Dean's mouth. "Yes, what happened is truly tragic indeed. Mr. Jargon was a fine teacher."

"Yah, I just never imagined him going like that. I mean, suicide..." It was probably the first true thing Dean had said to the principal all day. He really couldn't believe that his old history teacher had taken his own life. It sounded as absurd to him as saying that werewolves had shaggy hair all over their bodies or that vampires exploded into flames when exposed to sunlight. It was just too far-fetched. "Do you know why he did it?"

"I have absolutely no clue. That day he seemed the same as always. He even said good bye to me as he left. When I heard that he had been found electrocuted in his bathtub the next morning I just… could not understand why."

Dean nodded, glad that the principal seemed to agree with him. However, at the same time a shiver ran up his spine as an unstoppable feeling of dread clenched his stomach. If Mr. Jargon had not killed himself then that meant someone or some _thing_ had done it for him, and Dean knew he had encountered the very same thing ten years ago.

"I believe it's almost time for you to begin class, Dean." Principal Kreg's smile had returned as he held out his hand for Dean to shake again.

As he did so, the Winchester said, "It's good to be back sir," though the truth was he wanted nothing to do with Crowley County High School anymore. What he really wanted to do was get out of this office and drive away from this place forever. But he owed more to the victims. To Mr. Jargon and... to all of them. He owed so much to all of them.

\\\

"I heard he overdosed and they found him lying face down on the couch in the teacher's lounge."

"What? No way, he totally hung himself. My uncle works in the police department and he told me that they found him hanging from the basketball net in the gym, just… swaying.

"You're such an idiot, Tammy. I was in the gym when they found his body. I think I would have noticed him _swaying_ there.

"You're both wrong. He blew his brains out in the boy's washroom. I heard the gunshot myself when I was walking by."

"Yah? Then why didn't you go and see what happened?"

"_Oh right_, because it's such a good idea to enter a room that a gunshot just came from. That's incredibly intelligent. Plus, it was the _boy's_ washroom."

"Oh please, Laura, you didn't hear a gunshot because there was none. I'm telling you guys, he hung himself somewhere in the school."

"Well, however he did himself in I'm just glad he finally did it."

"Jamie! That's a horrible thing to say."

"Why? I bet you were both thinking the same thing. He was just a grumpy old man who liked to torture his students with his boring lectures and mountains of homework. Maybe now we'll get a better teacher."

"Like who? Ms. Tess?"

"Ms. _Tess_? No way. She's such a bitch, and I have to already put up with her for second period. I think that's enough."

"I heard we were getting some new supply teacher until they find a full replacement."

"You hear that from your uncle in the police department, Tammy?"

"Oh shut up, Laura!"

"Both of you shut up. Anyway, I hope we are. Supply teachers are always fun to mess with."

"You mess with every teacher, Jamie."

"What can I say? It makes school more interesting."

"Yah, well maybe this time-"

"Oh. My. _Freakin'_. God."

"What?"

"That _better_ be our supply."

\\\

Dean entered the classroom five minutes after the bell had rung and class had officially started. It occurred to him that his record of tardiness for this class had not yet been broken, stretching since the beginning of twelfth grade.

_I guess some things never really do change_, Dean chuckled to himself as he walked through the doorway.

Upon entering, the entire classroom went completely silent. What had once been a classroom full of chattering teenagers was now a silent enclosure containing six rows of desks and their occupants. Dean felt a little self-conscious as he made his way to the large oak desk positioned at the front of the class.

He immediately noticed that Mr. Jargon's possessions had not yet been removed. There was the brown and beige stapler that constantly jammed; the prickly cactus protruding from a small flower pot; a picture of Mr. Jargon and his wife that must have been taken more than forty years ago. It was black and white and faded, the smiling faces of the two young lovers wrinkle free. Mr. Jargon appeared to be no older than twenty, donning a military uniform and holding his wife's waist. Dean had to admit she was a beauty, and he couldn't help but wonder what had happened to her, for Mr. Jargon had only spoken of her once.

There was a sudden noise, the clearing of a throat, and Dean immediately looked up from the desk at the twenty-six faces staring back at him. "Hey," he said as he cleared the memories of his former teacher from his head, suddenly realizing he had not prepared any sort of introductory speech. "I'm Dean."

There was a pause in which no one spoke, the twenty-six students waiting for him to say more. The only problem was he didn't know what else to say.

Luckily, a short kid with curly black hair in the front row saved him before the silence started to get awkward and Dean was forced to write his name on the board to buy some time. "Dean?" he asked, a puzzled look on his round face. "That's what we're supposed to call you? Just… Dean?"

The girl behind him, a red head with a mass of freckles covering her tiny nose, piped up with her own question. "Yah, no 'Mister' or anything?"

Dean reached behind his head to rub his neck as he wondered how to answer. "Well, 'Mr. Winchester' always sounded a little strange to me."

The curly haired kid looked like he had been given an electric shock as he suddenly turned rigid in his chair, large saucer eyes staring at Dean. "Wait a second," he nearly choked. "Winchester? Your name is _Dean Winchester_?"

Dean was confused by the kid's reaction. "Uh, yah. That's me."

"_Holy crap!"_ the kid almost yelled as he twisted in his chair and gazed at his classmates. "We're being taught by Dean Winchester."

By now Dean's puzzlement had intensified dramatically. He looked from the wide eyed boy - who now had the giddiest grin he had ever seen plastered on his pale face - to the rest of the class. Several of the students were gawking at him with similar expressions. "Am I missing something here?"

'Curly' had turned back to him by now, excitement clear in the way he practically leaned across the top of his desk, the sloppy grin still taking up half his face. "Dude, you're like a freakin' _legend_ here."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed for a moment but then a small smirk curled up one corner of his lips. He tilted his head slightly to the left. "Really?"

"Are you kidding me?" Curly looked like he was using all the strength his straggly body contained to keep sitting. "You were the _only_ kid who's ever told off a teacher in a foreign language."

A male in the back row suddenly joined the conversation, his deep voice booming over the low murmur that had started amongst the students. "Yah, I heard about that. It was in Spanish or something, right?"

Dean's smile widened. "Latin actually, but…"

"I heard you had an affair with the librarian," the red head stated, a note of doubt in her voice.

Dean laughed as memories flooded his mind. He let out a heavy breath as he said, "_Ms. Tracer_. She was-" Then he abruptly stopped himself from finishing that sentence, refusing to elaborate on the matter or admit to the action. He cleared his throat, giving the girl a stern look. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear."

"How about the whole girl's locker room thing?" a very pretty girl in the second row called out. "Was that true?"

She stared at Dean with blue doe-like eyes and he immediately classified her as a ten, though that thought was simultaneously shoved to the back of his mind as Dean reminded himself that she was still in high school. He cleared his throat again, having missed the question. "Sorry, what?"

"The girl's locker room," she repeated. "Did you really do some girl there?"

"How-" Dean found himself almost speechless. "How the hell did you hear about that? No one knew about that."

"So it _is _true." The girl gave a mischievous smirk as two other girls sitting beside her giggled and the guy in the back yelled out, "You dog!"

Dean was a little overwhelmed of how much these kids knew about him. "Aren't you people supposed to be learning about history or something?"

Curly was quick to respond. "Dude, we are! _Your_ history."

"All right, let me rephrase that," sighed Dean. "Aren't you people supposed to be learning about _boring _history or something?"

\\\

Dean walked into the teacher's lounge feeling pretty good about himself. Not only had he made it through history class, but it had probably been the best damn history class he had ever attended. He had absolutely no idea how large of an impression his one month stay at this school had left ten years ago, and he couldn't help but smile as he remembered the captivated looks on the students' faces as he recounted the time he had finally told off his Latin teacher, Miss Kennedy. Sure, he may have tweaked the story here and there, but it was purely for the sake of telling a more exciting story. His newfound glory had _nothing_ to do with it.

"I. Am. A legend," he told himself as he rummaged through the impressively large fridge tucked into the corner of the ridiculously large room. Why was the teacher's lounge always the biggest room in the school? Not that he was complaining now, but it would have been nice to have a larger janitor's closet, for Dean had gained many injuries during his school days due to falling paint buckets and unsteady mops.

Grabbing a turkey sandwich from the top shelf of the fridge and ignoring the clearly written name scrawled across its wrapping, Dean plunked himself at one of the long tables standing in the middle of the room. He was sort of glad that there were no other teachers present at the moment, most of them teaching second period. He had never really gotten along with teachers when he was a teenager, and he didn't want to test if that had changed at all. At least not right now. He was also glad that... Mr. Levon?... had decided to pack a delicious turkey sandwich today as he bit into the tasty snack. Sure as hell beat microwavable hamburgers and cold pizza.

He had just taken another mouth-filling bite when the door opened once more and a woman walked into the room. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Dean with large eyes. Dean took the awkward moment to finish chewing, swallow, and study the woman. She was average height, had an average bust, and looked to be average weight. However, for all her normalcy Dean was stunned by the sparkling blue eyes that were currently staring - almost glaring - at him. Her face was heart shaped and surrounded by short black hair, almost as short as his and definitely shorter than Sam's. Her body appeared to be curvy but it was difficult to tell because of the oversized gym clothes she was wearing. Dean voted she ditch the position of gym teacher immediately, unless it was swim class of course.

The woman appeared to finally have regained her ability to speak as she suddenly blurted, "What are you doing here?"

Dean once again found himself baffled for the second time that day. "I'm... uh... eating a turkey sandwich."

The gym teacher looked confused herself for a moment before she said, "That's not what I meant. I mean what are you doing _teaching_ here?"

All right, now Dean's perplexity was quickly turning into irritation. Sure, she was cute with her slender freckled nose and thin black eyebrows, but who was she to question his teaching abilities? He had the same right as she did to teach here, and he wasn't going to let her_- Oh, right. I don't._

Hold on a minute. Did this girl _know _him? She didn't look familiar at all, but then again Dean had met so many women over the years he would be bound to forget a few faces. _Holy shit!_ What if she was one of his one night stands? What if-

"Nevermind." The word knocked Dean out of his panicked thoughts as he refocused on the woman's words. "I thought you were someone I knew, but now I realize you're not. My mistake." And with that she was gone, out the door as quickly as she had entered. Dean sat silently for a moment, the half eaten sandwich still clutched in his hands. "What was _that_ all about?" he asked no one in particular, but then he shrugged his shoulders and shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth. "Thank you Mr. Levon" he tried to pronounce around the mass of food, but it came out as nothing more than an unintelligible string of sounds.

As he searched for a drink in the fridge to wash the meal down with, the gym teacher had already disappeared from his mind, replaced with more serious thoughts. Thoughts he desperately wished he could swallow along with the turkey sandwich. Thoughts he would have to face head on soon.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	3. Chapter III

**THE SUPPLY**

Chapter III

Prick

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Crowley County, Colorado

1996

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"All right, I want three laps around the field. Now!"

Dean had doubts that the gym teacher could even do half a lap with the beer belly he was towing around. However, that didn't stop him from handing out detentions to anyone who defied his orders. Having already made one trip to the office that day, Dean was not looking for more reasons to get on the principal's bad side, and so he followed the group of boys beginning their run around the track.

The pace was slow and Dean found himself becoming bored quickly. He had always been in good shape. Above average, actually. His way of life demanded that he be able to handle extreme conditions that constantly tested his body's limits. Unfortunately, running around a 400 meter track was not one of those moments. Running through the woods on a cloudy night with a killer black dog on your heels - now _that_ was a little different. Not that he was complaining or anything.

Dean quickly found himself eavesdropping on the conversation behind him, where two of the guys in his class were discussing who they thought the hottest girl in the school was.

"Teresa has one fine ass. Have you ever walked behind her in the hall? Man, I almost walked straight into a wall."

"Yah, Teresa's nice, but check out the rack on Lilah. I mean those things must have been designed by god himself."

"Yah, who says god is cruel, huh?"

Both of the guys began laughing, probably punching each other in the arm as they dreamt of being with girls they had no chance with. Dean immediately tuned out of the conversation, his mind unexpectedly turning to the girl he had met in the office earlier that day. What had been her name again? Amanda. Amanda had a pretty face, even when she was mad. Amanda was-

"Winchester, slow down! This ain't a race!"

Dean snapped back to reality when he heard his name called, instantly realizing that he was now a few meters in front of the pack of runners and still running strong. He immediately slowed down, allowing the other boys to catch up to him within a few seconds.

"No one likes a show off," one guy said as he jogged past, his shoulder 'accidentally' colliding with Dean's and causing him to stumble.

Dean had learnt in grade one that first impressions were important to make. One day a bully had stolen his ketchup sandwich and Dean had done nothing about it. He had spent the next month packing two sandwiches each morning until he had finally realized that he was better than that and had punched the kid in the nose. It had gained him a timeout in the corner and a meeting with the principal and his dad, but it had also won him the respect of the bully.

He wasn't about to make the same mistake he had made eleven years ago, so instead of allowing the guy to run ahead of him without saying a word, he called out, "No one likes a prick".

The guy instantly came to a halt, turning around so fast that the red sand beneath his shoes rose in a pinkish dust around his ankles. "What did you say?" he hissed, blonde eyebrows half raised in surprise and half slanted in anger.

Dean had come to a stop as well, along with most of the runners who now circled them, obviously wishing for some sort of fight. Dean didn't think he'd disappoint, his fists tightening beside him as he opened his mouth to repeat himself. However, a loud whistle suddenly broke the tense atmosphere as Mr. Korg, the gym teacher, pushed his way through the group of boys, his large stomach acting almost like some sort of buffer.

"What in heaven's name is going on here?" he shouted as he came to the middle of the circle, glaring at Dean and the other boy. "Is there a problem?"

"No sir. I was just meeting the new kid is all," the prick announced as he gave the gym teacher a pretty convincing smile, his teeth straight and white. Dean was impressed by the way the guy handled himself, lying with ease. "I always like to welcome the newcomers, sir."

"Yah, well, next time wait to make introductions _after_ my class, Cory. Now everyone get back to running. And after, I want all of you to give me thirty push-ups!"

There was a groan from the crowd but no one seemed to object further, picking up there feet once more and continuing their journey around the track. Cory and Dean stood still for a moment longer, the Winchester's fists still clenched on either side of him. Then Cory gave a smirk, a kind of 'this isn't over' look, and suddenly he was running with the group, leaving Dean to pick up the rear.

At the end of second period, Dean and Cory were the only ones not heaving and puffing and gasping for air. Dean had done some digging during class and had discovered that Cory Delaware was some hotshot swimmer dude who apparently came first in every swim match he decided to grace with his participation. He had brought a lot of attention to Crowley County High School, so most of the teachers adored him. Dean was glad to find out that mostly all the other students were well aware that Cory was a prick, but apparently he was too untouchable for them to do anything about it. With above average looks and a rich daddy who dawdled in politics, he was like Superman. Lucky for Dean, even Superman has his kryptonite.

Unfortunately, Cory had refrained from doing anything even mildly out of line during the rest of gym class and in the change room afterwards. As they practiced their 100 meter sprints, long jumps, and shot puts, he mainly stuck close to a bunch of his friends, though they looked more like his gang.

His followers were a group of clones, speaking in the same way and sporting similar haircuts. Dean would have laughed if he hadn't seen it before. It was cliché, but he had been to enough high schools to know that things deemed cliché got that way for a reason. There was always the 'Almighty Asshole' at every school. Usually Dean avoided them altogether in order to not draw attention to himself, but for some reason he didn't feel like resisting the urge to punch this guy in the face.

Maybe it was because he had heard Cory mention Amanda. Several time, actually. Maybe it was because one of his classmates had informed him that Cory was dating the hottest girl in the school, and Dean knew that it could only be Amanda. Maybe it was because he really hated the idea of Amanda, with her preppy outfit and question marks and all, being with this douchebag. But those were only theories.

Period three was art. Dean didn't know why he was taking the class. He had no artistic ability whatsoever. Give him a pack of crayons and a colouring book and he was pretty sure the page would end up looking messier than a raw head's brain matter splattered across the kitchen tiles. On the other hand, it didn't take much to pass. As long as you gave it 'your best effort', the teacher was happy to give you an A+. She said so herself.

Fourth period was Latin. Although compared to Sammy, Dean was nowhere near knowledgeable of the language, he knew a lot more than the average American teenager. And apparently more than his teacher as well. Ms. Rochester couldn't even pronounce most of the words correctly. In fact, Dean would have bet his diploma that if she had to speak Latin to save her life, she would have failed miserably just from pronunciation mistakes alone.

It wasn't that he wanted to judge her harshly, but Dean had learned the hard way that correct pronunciation was necessary. He _had_ almost lost his life because of it, so he felt it was important that Latin teachers actually teach the stuff right, since it was probably one of the most important subjects taught in school. Along with carpentry. You never knew when a table saw would come in handy...

Anyway, after that terrifying moment Dean had studied the language with new vigour, and now he was fluent. Well, almost. Sam still always felt like he had to correct him.

Class was already fifteen minutes in and Dean felt like blowing out his brains. The girl who sat beside him kept chewing her gum as loudly as possible, as if she wanted to piss Dean off on purpose. Or maybe just get his attention. She kept glancing sideways at him, and he probably would have been interested if it weren't for her annoying tactics. This was exactly why he preferred older women.

He recognized a few students in the room from his other classes, including the girl he sat next to in history. What was her name again? She was sitting by herself at the front of the class. She kept squirming in her chair, as if she was uncomfortable to have her back turned to so many people. Dean could relate. He knew the feeling.

There was a knock on the door and every head turned towards the entrance, Dean's a fraction of a second quicker than the others. Ms. Rochester placed the chalk that she had been using on the ledge and went to answer it. Dean couldn't see who it was, but he heard a familiar voice speak from behind the open door.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Amanda said. "I had to run a few errands for the principal."

Ms. Rochester ushered her in, no dirty looks or angry lectures as penalty. Dean found himself a little jealous. He had been late by only a few minutes and Mr. Jargon had practically burned a hole through him with his death glare. Now 'little miss goody two shoes' here was getting a free pass even after missing fifteen minutes of precious lecture time. Dean felt like scoffing out loud.

As Amanda entered the classroom she had a polite smile on her face, but it immediately vanished as she met Dean's eyes. Her face turned as hard as stone for a moment, but then she looked away and seated herself in the only empty chair, next to the girl from his history class.

The lesson resumed and Dean spent the next hour trying not to look at the back of Amanda's head. For the first time he found himself actually _trying_ to pay attention to the lesson, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Amanda. Dean had to admit that there was something about her, but he couldn't quite place it. Yes, she was pretty, but so were a number of other girls, all of which were probably a better match for Dean. But maybe that was it. Amanda and him were clearly _not_ a good match.

She was proper. He was rude.

She wore plaid skirts. He wore Metallica t-shirts.

She ran errands for the principal. He got sent to the principal's office.

She thrived in her happy, apple pie life. He lived a nightmare and relished in it.

Yep. _So_ not a good match.

But he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if their two lives collided. He wasn't planning to whip out the "I fight monsters" speech or anything like that, but he felt the urge to test her. To draw back a bit of the curtain and see how she reacted.

He wanted to get her dirty. Not in the sexual way, of course, though he wouldn't mind that. He wanted to spill mud all across her perfect little life. Track in the dirt with his feet as he stomped around and revealed to her that life wasn't all about attendance sheets and pretty skirts.

It wasn't because she looked down on him. He had deserved that. No, it was something else. She was too clean. Too innocent. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her from her fantasies and show her reality. He wanted to mess her up a bit. No way he would hurt her or scare her, but just... He wanted to crash into her life and make a mess of it. And that scared him.

It scared him because even though he'd felt this way before, he'd never planned on actually doing anything about it. But when the bell rang and he gazed at Amanda exiting the room, the girl not even casting a glance back, he knew he was going to change her life forever.

And he was going to enjoy it.

\\\

Crowley County, Colorado

2005

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Dean was bored, and if there was anything that he despised most in this world, it was being bored. Well, maybe not quite, but it was up there with demons, freaky little girl ghosts, turbulence, broken wrists, and those annoying advertisement commercials where everyone is always smiling, even when they're talking.

History class had gone pretty well again, although Dean had refused to answer any questions about his teenage 'relationship' with the previous librarian. He had continued to put off actually teaching for the second day in a row by talking about a few stunts he had pulled in other schools.

His second class had reacted similar to his first, except they had already known who he was the moment he had walked in. By that time he had added a few things to his story, just to keep things interesting. Unfortunately, third period didn't start for another fifty minutes, so he had a lot of time to be miserably bored.

The teacher's lounge was empty again and Dean wondered if he was the only teacher with period two off. What was worse, the fridge was empty too. Mr. Levon had grown wise quickly and had stopped leaving his turkey sandwiches out for the taking.

Dean stopped drumming Metallica's "Fade to Black" on the table for a moment, long enough to hear the distant shouts of students. The voices probably came from the gymnasium, which was located just down the hall. Dean had learnt long ago that shouts usually meant action, which equalled excitement, so he picked himself up off the chair and walked out the door.

When he entered the gym he was greeted with a peculiar site. Several students were lined up at one end of the large room, a number of targets stationed a few feet in front of them. The students gripped bows in their hands, and all at once they began to notch arrows to the strings.

The female gym teacher he had met the day before was yelling out orders, stationed at the furthest end of the line. As Dean watched, the students drew back their strings at her command. "Fire!", and the arrows sped forward, most of them missing the targets entirely. One of the girls gave a frustrated groan, and Dean recognized her as the blonde in his first history class. The perfect ten.

"Ms. Tess," she called out, clearly annoyed. "Why do we have to learn to shoot arrows? I thought this was the twenty-first century. We have guns now."

"I'm no teaching you to shoot arrows because I expect you to use them as a weapon, Jamie," the teacher replied. "Archery is a recreational sport."

Dean almost laughed. Archery as a recreational sport? Sure, but it also came in handy when you were hunting vampires. Although he often preferred the easy usability of the crossbow, an arrow dipped in a bit of dead man's blood and the vamp would be yours for the beheading. Silver-tipped arrows were also handy when hunting a number of different supernatural creatures. He could go on and on about their uses, but he wasn't the gym teacher today.

"Can I help you?" Ms. Tess' voice suddenly rose in audio and Dean realized she was addressing him from across the gymnasium.

"Uh, just watching the show," he called back, not really sure how else to respond.

"Well if you have no business here, then-"

"Dean!" Perfect Ten suddenly called, interrupting the teacher. "Dean, can you help me with my aiming? I'm _really_ bad at this." She held out the bow with two hands, causing her breasts to squeeze together. Dean blinked a few times, trying to get his mind straight before he replied. What had the teacher called her again? Jamie. He shouldn't remember that.

"Sorry, I'm just the history teacher." He was about to turn around and leave but then Curly's voice piped up. Dean hadn't even noticed he was in the room, but he now appeared amongst the number of kids sitting on benches behind the shooters, his lanky body bouncing in excitement again.

"Arrows played a big part in history, didn't they?" he said, and there was a murmur of agreement. "Shouldn't history teachers be good at this kind of stuff?"

Dean smirked. "Only the good ones."

Ms. Tess had walked forward and was now positioned between Dean and her students. Her hands were on her hips, a no-nonsense look on her face. Surprisingly, the expression was directed towards Dean and not her students. "I'm sorry but I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Winchester. You're distracting my students and interrupting my lesson."

"Oh please, Ms. Tess," Jamie scoffed rudely as she stepped around the woman and glided towards Dean. "He's a teacher too. Just let him teach us this once." She reached a hand out and grabbed Dean's arm, pulling him forward. Dean didn't know exactly what was going on, but the look on Ms. Tess' face was enough to tell him that he better figure it out quick. Besides, were female students allowed to touch male teachers? Figuring he should be careful, he tore his hand away from Jamie before she could drag him to the shooting line.

"Um, that's all right." He cleared his throat. "Ms. Tess is your teacher right now, so you should probably listen to her."

Jamie pouted but didn't look like she was going to object.

"No, it's okay," Ms. Tess suddenly said, her calm voice not matching the annoyance burning in her eyes. "You can take over for a few minutes, _Dean_." A tiny smirk lifted one corner of her mouth, and Dean knew he was in trouble. She obviously thought he had no archery skills whatsoever and was declining to teach because he didn't want to embarrass himself.

He felt his own annoyance twitch his lips. From the get-go this chick had disliked him, and he had no idea why. He hadn't even hit on her. Okay, maybe he'd given her the once-over, but that was nothing, and definitely not worth the hatred she was sending his way right now. He wasn't going to lie, he was a little pissed about it.

"All right," he agreed, walking around the teacher but not breaking their stare. He strolled over to the line as the gym grew silent. "Bow, please," he said.

Jamie held her own out for him with a smile on her glossy lips. "Good luck," she whispered, the sound sending shivers down Dean's arms. He wanted to shake them out but was content to remind himself that Jamie was still a high school student, and was therefore, off limits.

Dean took the bow offered to him, allowing a slow smile to appear on his face as he positioned his feet. The bow was a piece of crap, but he'd worked with worse. He remembered a few years back when he had fashioned one himself from a branch. He had been trailing an ogre in the forest for days. It had taken five arrows to kill the fugly bastard.

In a practiced motion, Dean knocked the arrow and brought it up to aim at the target, which was a flimsy board with a target sign and a large red dot to mark the bullseye. He gave Ms. Tess one last glance before focusing entirely on his objective.

"The trick is to envision the arrow's path," he called out so that every student could hear him. "You have to imagine the flight of the arrow, from the string to the target, and then slow down your breathing. In fact, don't breathe at all."

He knew he had every student's unbroken attention as he slowly drew back the string, his muscles tightening and his jaw clenching. "When you pull back, keep your left arm curved slightly outward to avoid injury and your right arm bent directly behind, aligned with your jaw."

He felt his heart slow down, each beat a swishy thud in his ears. He was envisioning the target as a beast, hideous and menacing; the ogre he had brought down with five arrows. This would be the last one. The arrow to finish the job. All he had to do was shoot it right into the fugly bastard's heart. The red dot.

"Then," he continued, this time his voice barely above a whisper. But he knew that everyone could still hear him. The gym was deathly quiet. "You let go."

There was a loud _thwip_ and the arrow was wobbling up and down, its point embedded in the red bullseye. A loud roar erupted from behind him and Dean turned around to face the group of students who were cheering along the benches. Curly was pumping his fist in the air. Jamie was frantically clapping her hands as she jumped up and down, her movements a little distracting.

Dean's eyes drifted to Ms. Tess, who was standing to the side, a look of surprise on her face. But the expression quickly turned to something more like anger, and Dean took it as his cue to wrap up the lesson.

He held up a hand to gain silence, which was immediately restored, and then said, "That's all there is to it. Of course it takes practice to get good, so don't worry if you still suck after today. I can guarantee most of you will. Just don't moan and piss about it in history class, got it?"

The students nodded and Dean smiled, handing the bow to Ms. Tess as he left the gymnasium. He wondered why he never had archery in gym class when he was a teenager. It would have come in handy when dealing with Cory the Prick.

\\\

Sam stared at his brother with a face that could have been made out of stone. Even his eyes were dull, hardened and flinty as he watched Dean laugh, the sound ricocheting down the walls of the empty school hallway.

"Dude, I just can't get over how well it suits you." Another burst of laughter and Dean was wiping tears from his eyes. "The mop and…and-" It didn't seem like he was going to stop anytime soon, so Sam decided to interrupt instead.

"I didn't call you here so that you could laugh it up all night, Dean." He tried to keep the annoyance he felt out of his voice but it was impossible. "This is important."

That seemed to jerk the older Winchester out of his laugh attack as he straightened his back and took in a deep breath. "Right," he stated. "The basement you said, so let's go."

It had always amazed Sam how his brother could switch moods so easily. Whether it was an unexpected joke to break tension or a solemn thought out of the blue on a nice calm day, it was just another layer of Dean that would continue to puzzle him. He didn't question it now though, just grateful that he could leave behind the mop and bucket he had been towing around for the past two hours.

Sam had refused the idea of being a janitor at first. Not that he thought there was anything wrong with the occupation, but he had predicted Dean's reaction perfectly, and he knew that this was just the beginning. Dean loved to torture him, and so as long as he was Crowley County High's night janitor he would have to listen to all of the "witty" insults Dean threw at him. Hell, he could already picture his brother dumping his feet on the motel table and telling him to shine his shoes.

But he would have to deal with it, because being the night janitor had its perks. It gave him free range to explore the entire school with no interruptions. And by doing so, he had discovered something quite peculiar in the basement.

"So, um, what am I looking at exactly?" Dean stood in front of a cement wall which had been previously hidden by a large filing cabinet. An assortment of scratches decorated the wall, some shallow and barely discernable in the dim lighting, others deep enough for spiders to nest in. When Sam pulled out a flashlight and shown it on the wall, it revealed a number of dots littering the space as well.

"It's Morse code," Sam stated, his eyes trailing the wall. "At least I think it is. I tried to translate it but I couldn't understand what it spelt out."

"An anagram, maybe?" Dean asked, studying the wall intently.

"Maybe. I haven't tried to decipher it any further. Maybe we should send it to Bobby."

"Sounds good to me," Dean said, slapping Sam on the back. "Now shouldn't you be getting back to work? I heard a kid puked in the boy's change room today."

"Perfect," Sam grumbled, but then he took out a note pad and began to copy the code.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


End file.
